Tile and tar... littered with shells,
maternity wards overfilled.
Mahogany lined closets, inside
nine black robes hang.
Nests for snipers the jurists bench,
from high perches sperm and bullets rain.
Some look for a watchman
to rule over men's deeds,
thump on his guidebook
standing on corners shouting prophecies.
Cherry picked gospel from heritage texts
coded with numbers tools to deflect.
Brothers and sisters stand up from the pews
drop the gun, shut the book,
make some new rules.
Head for the hill or the voting booth
let sapling blueprints take root.
Deadbeat fathers reigns are abandoned,
as daughters and sons
take the reins from dad's hands!

Nice poem .

NICE

Sounds like you need to move to New Zealand. Don't let it get to you.

One wonders if them that are referred to..would take heed of these words...glad I live in NZ